Mise En Place by jayhawkbb
by ControlPossessSeduceContest
Summary: Everything belongs in its place, both in the kitchen and out of it. Can Bella protect herself from someone who challenges that notion? Contest entry for the Control. Possess. Seduce. Contest.


**Contest entry for the Control. Possess. Seduce. Contest.**

 **Title** :Mise En Place

 **Rating:** M

 **Summary** : Everything belongs in its place, both in the kitchen and out of it. Can Bella protect herself from someone who challenges that notion?

 **Disclaimer** : The author does not own any publicly recognizable characters herein. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

 **Mise En Place**

~M E P~

"Time?" My voice is hushed. The butterflies in my stomach flutter wildly, whirling as rapidly as the _chop, chop, chop_ sound my knife blade makes against the wooden cutting board.

"Two minutes," he answers. "If you want to stay on schedule."

He's teasing me, I think, but I'm not in the mood. Every detail of this catered dinner has been meticulously designed, from the menu to the wine pairings to the timing of each course. He knows I don't want any deviation from the plan. Annoyed, I pause to glare over my shoulder, expecting him to be looking at me. He's not. He's bent over the island behind me, saucing each entrée and wiping the edges of the plates clean.

"We're staying on schedule, Jacob."

"Of course, Chef." He glances up, winks at me. Momentarily, the butterflies' dance slows, pushing a warm tingle up my spine. _God, he's really cute_. But I don't have time to admire the view at the moment.

Without responding, I turn around again, stomach tightening, knife moving even faster as I race to meet the self-imposed deadline. I'm addicted to this feeling – the pressure, the adrenaline rush. It feeds my soul as completely as the food I prepare feeds those who eat it. It doesn't matter whether I'm cooking in the restaurant or catering in a private home, like tonight. The thrill is the same. The kitchen – any kitchen – is where I'm most alive.

"Wine service?" I ask, making a final run through my mental checklist.

"Seth and Sam should be pouring the pinot as we speak."

"Marcassin 2012?"

"Yes. Exactly as you instructed, Chef."

Ignoring the hint of irritation in Jacob's voice, I scoop the basil chiffonade onto the knife blade and turn around. Working quickly, I sprinkle the herb strips over the top of each plate. In my peripheral vision, I see the servers come into the kitchen just as the timer on my phone beeps.

"Entrées up, guys. Plates are hot."

While Seth and Sam load their trays, I silence the timer and wipe the sweat off my forehead with the sleeve of my chef's coat. Jacob looks questioningly at me when I don't make a move to pick up any of the plates. He knows I often help serve the main course when I cater, so I can greet the guests and describe the dish. But right now, I'm hot and I want a minute to breathe.

"Jacob, help run the plates please."

Without missing a beat, he nods and picks up the two plates left on the buffet warmer. He follows Seth and Sam out the kitchen door and down to the back lawn where the dinner party is set.

Using my hands, I fan my warm face for a few seconds and tighten my ponytail before setting the timer on my phone for thirty-five minutes. I stack the dirty pans neatly in the sink, and then uncork the four bottles of chilled Gewürztraminer wine. Its fruity, floral aroma fills the air as I pour a bit into a long-stemmed glass and swirl it around. When I take a sip, I'm pleased that the wine tastes more acidic and less sweet than it smells.

" _À la tienne_ ," I mutter, toasting to myself as I finish the glass and return the bottles to the bucket of ice.

Nervous energy flaring again, I quickly put a pot of water on the stove to heat. I grind coffee beans for the French press and preheat the oven to broil. Finally, I take the tray of custard-filled ramekins out of the refrigerator and grab a clean towel to dab the condensation from the tops.

"I knew it was you."

Startled by the quiet voice behind me, I stand up straight… but I don't have to turn around to know who's spoken. The recognition is evident in the way my heart skips, my blood warms. Memories I normally suppress break through the surface of my mind as if beckoned by his velvet-smooth voice. For the briefest moment, I close my eyes and remember the nights spent working for him under bright kitchen lights, the nights spent tangled with him in the dark. The deepest part of my heart still bears the imprint – and the scars – of that time.

Two years and thousands of miles have separated us. I thought I had finally come to terms with the prospect of never seeing him again. I thought I had finally gotten over him. But if that's true, then why have five simple words started my head spinning, my emotions reeling?

Determined not to show how affected I am, I open my eyes, slinging the towel over my shoulder as I turn around. Although I tell myself not to smile, I can't hold back the surge of joy I feel when I see that beautiful face, that once-familiar smirk. The corners of my mouth curl upward all on their own.

"Chef."

"That title belongs to _you_ tonight, Chef," he says, moving toward me from the doorway. Dressed elegantly in a dark suit and tie, his green eyes seem brighter, more vivid than I remember. His hair is shorter and styled; his face is scruff-free. He looks… different, refined. Stunning. Suddenly self-conscious about my own unsophisticated appearance, I cram my hands in the front pockets of my jeans and shift my weight from side-to-side in my old Chucks.

He stops a few feet in front of me, his eyes never leaving mine. I can't breathe, can't speak, even though questions fly through my mind at light speed. Why is he at this dinner? How long has he been back in Seattle? Is he back to stay?

How could he leave town without even saying goodbye?

While we continue staring at each other, an awkward silence hangs heavily in the air. Then we both talk at once.

"Are you still–?"

"How have you–?"

He chuckles quietly, cutting the tension a little. "Ladies first."

"How have you been?"

"Good, mostly. Busy," he answers with a nod. His eyes shift to the limestone floor for just a second before lifting to meet mine again. "I, uh, got nominated for a JB Award."

I knew that, of course. Most everyone in the American restaurant world checks the James Beard Award nominees each year. Seeing his name on the list last February knocked the wind – and the last bit of hope that he'd come back – out of me. I didn't know he was back from Asia… didn't know that he'd settled in Chicago instead of returning here. Once the shock and hurt wore off, I was genuinely happy for him. But in the four months since then, I stopped looking for him in every Seattle restaurant and on every city street. I slowly accepted that he had moved on, and I tried to do the same.

"I saw. Congratulations."

"I didn't win." His slight smile – a little shy, a little embarrassed – pulls at a place in my chest that has been closed off for a long time, and I take an impulsive step forward.

"I saw that, too. It's a rare honor to even be nominated, though."

He shrugs like it's not a big deal, but I see the flash of pride in his eyes. He clears his throat and changes the subject. "The food has been delicious tonight. Everyone at the table is raving."

"How did you know I was cooking?"

"The smoked scallops. Nobody else's taste like yours," he says softly. His opinion always mattered to me, and his praise was never given undeserved. Hearing the compliment in his voice now thrills me. That feeling lingers as he moves closer – close enough to touch. "And the presentation. That app looked like fucking art on a plate."

"Thank you."

"Gorgeous."

I think he's still talking about the first course, but my foolish heart begins to pound anyway, wishing... wanting. He lifts a hand toward my face, brushing lightly along my cheek before tucking a stray piece of hair behind my ear. His fingers linger there, and then slide slowly down to rest against the side of my neck.

Under the warmth of his hand, my skin prickles, my pulse races. I'm not the only one feeling it; I can hear him breathing rapidly, too. As he leans down, I try to keep my gaze locked with his, but my nerve quickly wavers, and I look down at his arm. Catching a glimpse of color beneath the cuff of his shirt, I have the urge to reach out, to push the sleeve back so I can see more of the ink that starts at his wrist and climbs upward on his skin.

I was never good at controlling my urges where he's concerned. That hasn't changed, I guess. But just as my fingers land on his forearm, we're interrupted.

"Bella?"

Jacob's voice yanks me back to reality, and I pull away, taking a guilty step backward. When I turn toward Jacob, I see the question in his eyes.

"Uh, Jacob, I'd like to introduce you to my old boss," I say, rushing to rationalize the scene he walked in on. Still wary, he walks forward with an outstretched hand. "Jacob Black, this is–."

"Edward Cullen." He speaks for himself as they shake hands. My past and my present. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise," Jacob responds.

When they let go, Jacob moves to my side, standing much too close for someone who's just a colleague. The realization on Edward's face is instantaneous, and his darkening gaze settles on me. Explanations sit unspoken on the tip of my tongue – I've only known Jacob for two months; we've only been out four times. But I don't owe Edward those words, and before I can think of something else to say, he smiles tightly.

"Well, I'd better get back outside. Good to see you, Bella."

He doesn't look like he means that, but I answer anyway. "You, too, Chef."

As I watch him walk away, I feel another tug on the part of my heart he held for so long. Afraid that the sadness will show in my eyes, I turn my back on Jacob, moving to the sink to wash my hands.

"That guy was your boss before James?"

"No. He was James' sous chef."

When I started working at the restaurant, James and Edward were close friends, running the kitchen in an easy head chef-sous chef tandem. Slowly, though, the relationship deteriorated, crumbling under the weight of ego and refusal to compromise on both sides. Edward was the creative force behind the most popular dishes on the menu, and he consistently fought to offer diners even more unique flavors. James claimed the restaurant's reputation for serving well-prepared classics would suffer if too many non-traditional dishes were included on the menu.

Frequent arguments eventually escalated into all-out war, and James won. Edward left. Left the restaurant. Left Seattle. Left me.

I don't tell Jacob any of that, though. It feels disloyal to James – and to Edward – to share it.

Ironically, James has softened his stance since then, and he encourages other chefs to bring him ideas for new menu items now. I've given him a few, but my favorite creations – including mythe smoked scallops – are still just mine. He asked me to make them for tonight's catered dinner, but I won't allow him to put them on the restaurant's menu.

"You and him?"

Jacob sounds worried, so I force myself to face him. "It was a long time ago," I say gently. "I haven't talked to him in over two years."

His pout stays in place despite my attempt to reassure him. Twenty minutes ago, I might have tried again to convince him, to cheer him up. Twenty minutes ago, I expected to spend some quality time making out with him later.

But that doesn't – _he_ doesn't – appeal to me as much now. Because ten minutes ago, Edward Cullen walked into this kitchen and tilted my heart sideways. Again.

 _Deep breath, Bella. Regroup. Focus._

"We need to get the dessert ready." My statement sounds sharper than I intended, but I don't back off as I continue. "Can you finish the garnish please?"

His dark eyes harden before he answers. "Yes, Chef."

~ M E P ~

Carrying two dessert plates, I follow Seth and Sam outside and down the steps. I didn't have a chance to admire the setting for the dinner party before service began, so I take it all in as we approach. The lush lawn overlooks the Sound, and the long table is decorated with colorful flowers and flickering candles. The midsummer evening is ending in a picture-perfect sunset, with gold streaks and pink clouds painting the sky.

As we approach the table, my eager eyes scan back and forth, seeking Edward. When I spot him, he's engrossed in conversation with the woman sitting beside him. Their heads are bent close together; her hand rests on his shoulder. Something she says makes him laugh, and his deep chuckle seems to resonate mockingly in my ears.

I feel sick.

Plastering a smile on my face, I set plates in front of the hosts, Mr. and Mrs. Weber. As I address the table, talking a little about the dessert course, I see Edward sit up and turn my way. My eyes flit to meet his briefly, but I don't let myself stare too long. The brunette next to him is pretty, and even though I know it's irrational, I hate her a little. The bitter jealousy burning in my gut won't let me feel any other way.

After thanking the Webers for the opportunity to cook for them, I beckon Seth and Sam to the side to give final instructions about coffee service and clean up. Although I know it's not wise, I glance at Edward again just as he takes his first bite. His head snaps up immediately, and he looks at me with narrowed eyes. Time for me to go. With a final goodbye to Seth and Sam, I head inside.

Stupidly, my stomach keeps churning as Jacob and I clean up the kitchen. I'm kind of relieved that he's not speaking to me. I don't think I'm capable of carrying on a conversation right now.

His sullen mood doesn't improve during the drive back to the restaurant or while we unload the catering equipment. As we're putting everything away in the storage room, I hear James' unmistakable, shuffling footsteps behind me.

"How'd everything go?" he asks.

"As planned, Chef," I reply, without turning around. I intend to leave it at that, but Jacob's interjection ruins my plan.

"Some guy who used to work here was at the dinner," he divulges, obviously realizing that I don't want to discuss it with James since I didn't mention it. Still facing the shelving units, I roll my eyes.

"Really? Who was it?"

"I didn't catch his name," Jacob lies. "Bella seemed to, uh, know him pretty well, though."

Fighting the urge to behave just as childishly as he is, I press my lips together for a moment, biting back a snide remark.

"Bella?" James tries to hide his demand by sounding casually curious, but I'm not fooled. He's probably suspicious that it's Edward since I didn't offer up the information on my own. Wanting to see his reaction when I confirm it, I turn around before I tell him.

"Chef Cullen was there."

Watching the color drain from his face shouldn't amuse me as much as it does. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling during the resulting interrogation. Unpleased with my chorus of "I don't know" answers, he finally storms out of the room.

Jacob sighs loudly. "Do you want to ride together to Finley's?"

Astounded, I glare at him, unable to believe what he said. Almost everyone on the restaurant staff goes to Finley's for drinks on Thursdays. But does he really think I'd go _anywhere_ with him tonight after the way he's acted?

"I'm not going," I say flatly.

"Oh, come on, Bella. I'm not mad anymore."

"I don't give a shit if you're mad or not," I seethe, finally letting my anger show. "You've given me the silent treatment for the last two hours and tried to make me feel bad for having a life before I met you. Then you topped off the night by tattling to James like an immature asshole."

"Well, how would you feel if you walked in on me practically kissing someone else?"

Right now, I'm not sure I would care. But I don't want to reply rashly, so I shrug and cross my arms over my chest. Huffing irately, he leaves the room, bumping into the person standing in the doorway.

"Excuse you!" Rosalie calls after him. Walking toward me, she grins mischievously. "What's wrong with man-bun? Don't tell me there's trouble in paradise already."

Rosalie is my best friend and the best server at the restaurant. Nobody's better at working the front of the house. Her blend of beauty and charm make her a favorite among customers. In spite of her snarky attitude with the kitchen staff, most of them love her, but she and Jacob have clashed since the day they met. And she hasn't been subtle about her dislike for him… and his hair.

"Don't start, Rose," I warn, but I'm not as vehement in my defense of him as I usually am.

"Seriously, if you're going to keep dating him, you've got to make him cut that thing off. There's a very short list of hot men who can make that look work. He's not one of them." Without responding, I turn around to stack the last couple of catering pans on the shelf. She takes it as an invitation to continue. "Jared Leto. Orlando Bloom. The older Hemsworth. You know, the Thor one."

"Rosalie!" I exclaim, exasperated.

"I'm just sayin'," she mutters. "Not everyone can pull it off. Remember Leo's disastrous little stub?"

I can't help the giggle that escapes. "You're such a freak."

"You love me anyway," she says sweetly. She pauses for a few seconds, and then she pounces. "So, this fight you and man-bun are having. Does it have anything to do with Edward Cullen being back in town?"

My mouth drops open, and I whirl around to face her. "You knew he was back?"

"No, no," she denies, shaking her head. "James is out in the kitchen ranting about him. I just put two and two together."

"Oh."

"He was at that fancy dinner tonight?" She waits until I nod. "Oh, fuck. Did you talk to him?"

"Yeah, a little." She waits expectantly for me to continue, but she doesn't push when I remain quiet.

"You should have junk punched him." We smile slightly at each other – she knows I'd never do that, and I know that she'd never want him hurt. She was mad when he disappeared from our lives, but she adored him. Coming toward me, she pulls me into a tight hug. "Let's go get drunk at Finley's and talk about idiot boys."

"Not tonight. I just want to go home."

Standing back, she grabs my hands. "Want me to come over?"

A quick knock on the doorjamb is followed by a deep voice. "Hey, girls. We're heading out in a few. You need a ride to the bar?"

Looking over Rose's shoulder, I see Emmett, the sous chef, standing just outside the room. Since he was hired for the position I wanted, I tried not to like him, but it's impossible. He's incredibly talented and supportive in the kitchen. He's been here for three months now, and Rose has been flirting shamelessly with him for two and a half. I have no idea how he's resisting.

"Go with him," I whisper, pushing her away.

Reluctantly, she agrees and walks me to my car. "Love you, Bell." After I reciprocate, she gives my shoulder a quick squeeze before she shuts the door. "Tomorrow, though, I want details about the Edward conversation."

~ M E P ~

An hour later, I'm freshly showered and heading toward my tiny, crowded closet. I only waver for a second before I raise up on tiptoe, reaching for the folded t-shirt at the back of the top shelf. When I sniff it, my heart drops into my stomach, somehow disappointed that it doesn't smell like him anymore, even though I knew it wouldn't.

It's been a long time since I've worn the green Guinness t-shirt, but I let my towel fall to the floor and put it on now. I borrowed it the last time I spent the night at Edward's apartment, only three days before he left Seattle. In a way, it became a souvenir of what I had… a reminder of what I lost.

I haven't spent much time thinking about Edward in recent months, but he occupies my mind while I dry my hair and warm up leftover pasta. None of the questions I had about him earlier were answered, and I find myself wishing that I'd asked them when I had the chance.

Settling on the couch with a bowl of linguine, I think back on our short-lived romantic relationship. After spending my first couple of years at the restaurant as flirty friends, we hooked up one night. For the next five months, we were nearly inseparable, rarely sleeping apart. Although the teasing from the staff was relentless, Edward would laugh it off and grin at me from across the kitchen. Countless late-night hours were spent trying out new recipes and talking at one of our apartments. I knew how Edward felt about almost everything… except me. I was never sure about that. But I was crazy in love with him.

Then it all crumbled beneath my feet.

When James offered me a three-month internship that he'd arranged at a well-known restaurant in Paris, I immediately accepted. Edward's reaction was less enthusiastic. Accusations about James' motives were followed by ultimatums about our relationship. We fought, and I was so hurt that I completely withdrew from him. Two days later, without a word to me, he quit his job and skipped town. Rose was the only person at the restaurant that he said goodbye to before he turned off his cell phone and left for Asia.

With a sigh, I set the food aside as pain, dull and heavy, fills my chest, refusing to fade quickly. I check my phone when it pings, seeing the latest in the series of drunken apology texts from Jacob. I click it open, but I'm not swayed by it. I don't reply.

As I'm washing my bowl out a few minutes later, there's a knock at my door. Guess Jacob didn't get the hint. Leaving the water running in the sink, I walk to the door, fuming.

"Nope, nope, nope," I say, unlatching the door guard and turning the deadbolt. I yank the door open. "You're not comin–…

The words die on my lips when the gaze I meet isn't the bleary, remorseful, brown one I expected. Sizzling green eyes bore into mine.

"Edward."

"Cardamom? Fucking cardamom?" he asks lowly.

"Wh – what?"

"You took the dessert we created and added fucking cardamom?"

He changed out of his suit and into jeans and a black t-shirt. His hair is ruffled and messy instead of neat. This is the Edward I knew. Although I try to keep my gaze matched with his, my eyes betray me, drinking in the sight of his beautiful arms. Spots on his skin that used to be blank are now colored in, and I'd like to study the detail of each new tattoo. But I force myself to look up again.

"Are you pissed because I changed it or because I made it better?"

"Both." His admission feels like an indirect compliment, and kind of sucks the fire out of my temper. His gaze lowers, roving slowly up my bare legs and past the shirt I'm sure he recognizes. He folds his arms across his chest as our eyes meet. "Is your little boyfriend here?"

"He's not my… how did you find out where I live?"

The right side of his lips lifts unevenly before he answers. "Rose."

"Figures," I mumble. She probably didn't even make him work for my new address.

"So you're alone?" He moves forward, and before I realize his intention, he's inside my apartment, shutting the door behind himself. We stare at each other for a moment, and then he turns his head away, frowning. "Is there water running?"

"Shit!" Hurrying the few steps to the kitchen, I twist the hot and cold water handles, stopping the flow from the faucet. When I turn around, he's standing a few feet in front of me.

"What are you doing, Bella?" His voice is soft, urgent. "Working for an asshole? Dating that short, beady-eyed guy?"

Stunned by the line of questioning, I can't get an answer out. "I… uh… I."

"Have you been fucking him?"

A flash of outrage pushes me forward with teeth and fists clenched. "Who I sleep with is none of your business."

"I know. But I haven't been able to think about anything else for the last four hours," he declares. His eyes are unguarded, pleading with me. "I need to fucking know. Tell me."

Unable to deny him, I do. "No. We've only been dating for a couple of weeks." He closes his eyes briefly, looking relieved. When he looks at me again, impulsive words spill out of my mouth. "What about that woman at dinner tonight? Have you been screwing her?"

"I was thinking about it. Until…"

His voice trails off, and a flicker of hope mixes with the jealousy flowing through my veins. I know I shouldn't ask, but then again, this conversation is full of shouldn'ts. "Until what?"

"Until I saw you again."

His answer seems to echo in the air as he closes the distance between us. His smoldering stare pushes everything but this – _him_ – out of my head. It's as if the last twenty-six months never happened. Everything feels the same.

Bending down, he reaches for me, placing his hands on either side of my jaw. Soft lips land roughly on mine, and I respond in kind, not even pretending that I don't want this kiss as much as he does.

Our lips move together in perfect unison, giving and taking. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, sliding seductively along mine. Weak-kneed, I wrap my arms around his waist and hang on, relishing the fire burning through my body. We kiss like our lives depend on it for several minutes, not breaking apart even to breathe.

When he lowers one hand to my chest and grips my breast, I tilt my head back with a gasp. Moving his lips to my neck, he uses his fingers to continue giving pleasure, squeezing gently, brushing across my nipple over and over. I feel the warm rush of desire settle between my legs, but I grab Edward's arm as he makes a move to touch me there.

"We shouldn't be doing this," I whisper.

"Yes, we fucking should," he replies hoarsely, leaving his hand where I stopped its progress. Although he doesn't try to shift his hand any lower, he slowly gathers the material of my shirt up until he can rest his fingers against the bare skin of my stomach. He places teasing kisses just below my jaw, and wraps his other arm around my waist. "Tell me you don't feel what's still between us – what's always been between us."

"Edward–."

"Tell me you don't remember how fast I could make you come. With my fingers… with my mouth… with my cock."

"I remember."

He lifts his head to look at me. "Then let me, Bella. Let me."

I don't answer except to whimper quietly and guide his hand down. He pauses to slip his fingers beneath my underwear, then he circles my clit, watching me. My grasp on his forearm tightens, and I let my eyes slide closed, enjoying the way he learns my body again. He kisses me as he pushes a finger inside me, a moan erupting from deep in his chest. I feel my body adjust, welcoming him as if it remembers his touch. He adds another finger, stroking me exactly the way I like. Pressure builds instantly, and my legs begin to shake.

Twisting my mouth away, I shift my arms so I can cling to his shoulders. "I can't stand up anymore."

"Yes, you can. I want your first one this way. In the kitchen. Hanging on to me."

Moving his fingers faster, he leans down, resting his mouth against mine. Panting, I teeter on the edge and savor the feeling just before the fall. The next instant, an intense orgasm crashes through me, and I cry out, letting him hold me up with the arm around my waist.

He waits patiently, holding me as my body shudders, slows, goes limp. He pulls his hand away from me and wraps that arm around me, too. Lifting me effortlessly, he stands in place, swaying slowly from side to side while I rest my head on his shoulder, recovering. He sets me down after a moment, steadying me with his hands.

"Nice place," he says, pausing to look around the apartment for the first time since he got here. "But where the fuck is the bedroom?"

"Edward–."

"Don't say it. Don't say we're not gonna do what we're gonna fucking do." He bends down to kiss me, murmuring against my lips. "I want you, Bella. Deep and slow. Hard and fast. Any fucking way you'll let me have you."

Desire that was sated only a moment ago grows again when I feel his hard cock pressing against my belly. He's right; we're going to end up in bed. I'm only torturing both of us by trying to fight it.

"I want you, too."

Reaching for the bottom of his t-shirt, I push it up until he breaks away from me to yank it over his head. He kicks his shoes off where we stand, and I grab his hand, leading him to my room, tumbling down to the bed underneath him. He kisses me desperately, thrusting his hips against mine while I wrap my arms and legs around him.

Breathing hard, he scoots down, moving my t-shirt out of the way and skimming his lips across my stomach. My back arches off the bed when he pauses to circle my belly button with his tongue, and I feel him smile against my skin. Moving slowly upward, he inches my shirt out of his way until he reaches my breasts. As he exposes me, a different excitement fuels my blood, and I raise my head so I can see his face.

"You said you'd never get a tattoo," he whispers, surprised. His touch as he traces the letters on my skin is light, teasing.

"Changed my mind."

"Holy goddamn hell. It's perfect. Mise en place," he says, reading the culinary words scrawled above my heart. After placing a kiss on the tattoo, he tongues my nipple, breathing hotly against me. I try to pull his mouth back to mine, but he rears up and looks at me. "It's gonna have to be hard and fast, baby. I can't fucking control it now."

Before I can answer, he's pulled the shirt off me. He sits back to lower his jeans and I lift my legs up to slide my underwear down. He practically rips them from my hand, tossing them carelessly to the side.

Back between my legs, he doesn't hesitate, thrusting forward powerfully until he's buried deep. We move together wildly, exchanging no words. No promises. In his eyes, I recognize the hunger, the intensity that he always had for things he wanted. Knowing what he likes, I dig my nails into his back and trail them down to his ass, holding him tightly to me. He smirks conceitedly at me and angles his hips to hit my clit on each stroke.

"Oh, my God, Edward." Squeezing my eyes shut, I explode around him again, and then I feel him release inside me.

"Fuck, Bella," he groans into my neck, letting his weight collapse on me.

Hearts still hammering, we hold still, catching our breath. When he finally moves to lie on his stomach next to me, I immediately miss his warmth.

Rolling to face him, I study his body in the faint light. In addition to the new tattoos on his arms, he has a random pattern of large and small inked stars on his side. My fingers itch to trace them, to try and make sense of the design. It feels too intimate, though. Too much like something a lover would do. That's not us anymore.

Several minutes pass in silence before he speaks.

"I wasn't sure you'd come back from Paris."

My orgasmic high deflates like a leaky balloon, and I sigh quietly. This conversation is long overdue. I just don't know if either of us is prepared for it.

"It was a three-month stage, Edward," I answer, trying hard to keep the blame out of my voice. "I was always coming home at the end."

"How was it?"

"Incredible." It's true; I fell in love with the city, the food, the people. And the long, busy workdays helped keep my mind off my broken heart. "I learned a lot."

"You didn't learn not to work for assholes."

"Working for James is good for my career," I assert. "He's the best chef in Seattle."

"Second best, now that I'm back in town." He chuckles like it's a joke, but I know his ego. He's serious. And he's probably right.

"Are you back for good?" I wait, breathless, not sure if I really want to know the answer.

"Yeah. I'm opening a restaurant. The Webers are the main investors."

Understanding, cold and callous, washes over me, and I bolt upright in bed. Feeling every bit as naked as I am, I grab the blanket on the end of the bed and pull it over myself.

"You had me cooking tonight for a rival restaurant ownership group?"

"I was supposed to have James cooking tonight, but the chickenshit bastard sent you instead."

"Because I'm better at working those events than he is."

"I know that, baby."

"Don't call me that," I demand angrily. "You came back to town, fucked my career and then fucked me."

Realizing how upset I am, he sits up and eyes me cautiously. "It's not like that, Bella. I didn't know you were in Seattle. And I never imagined you'd still be working for him."

"At least he showed me that he had faith in me."

"Is that what you think he was doing by sending you to Paris?" Now he's pissed, too. "He did that to drive a wedge between us – you and me."

"And it worked. Because you didn't support me."

"You chose him over me!" His voice is loud, and he stands up, plucking his clothes from the floor where they've fallen. "You fucking left."

"You left first," I accuse, feeling tears threaten the back of my eyes.

"Only so I didn't have to watch you fucking walk away," he replies flatly, sliding his jeans up his legs and buttoning them.

"You need to go," I whisper, looking down so he can't see that I'm crying.

"On my way," he spits. At the bedroom doorway, he pauses. "In spite of it all, how we hurt each other, we're both here. And we both know there's something between us that pulls us back together, even when we push each other away."

The words are spoken softly, but the impact on me is deafening. Still, I don't look up… and I don't reply. My right hand absently traces the letters printed on my chest. Mise en place. Everything in its place. My heart belongs right here where it's protected – not in the hands of someone I don't know if I can trust.

I hear him leave the room, and a minute later leave my apartment. This time I'm the one who can't stand to watch the other walk away.

Grabbing the Guinness t-shirt, I put it on and lie back. The t-shirt still doesn't smell like him. But the bed does.

* * *

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